perfectionist complex
by Tamioca
Summary: Lukas Bondevik is perfect (with his eyes boring into me, his skin cold, and his lips seldom curling into a smile, he is too perfect). / norwayxreader ; human au
1. obra maestra

His skin is like porcelain, ever pale, his hair a shade of blonde that complemented his blue eyes as deep as the ocean. His posture is straight and proud, but an air of mystery hung around him. His lips are in a thin line.

Lukas Bondevik is simply perfect _(oh, too perfect. Too perfect for his own good)_. I can daresay he is art _(and perhaps he really is)_ —his jawline, the bridge of his nose, the light fluttering of his eyelashes. He is beautiful. He is perfect.

But art is not meant to be perfect.

I've tried to find meaning in his eyes—sign of life. Emotions. Feelings.

But he is flawless _(or so he wants to project)_. I cannot find a single fault in him—even if such fault is human emotion.

"What do you want?"

Trembling hands, a wavering voice, and somewhat fake confidence _(are those all I ever will be? I'd rather not think about it)_. Freckles dust my skin, my lips wounded _(when will I ever get rid of the habits of biting my lips and removing its skin?)_ , and my eyes downcast.

Upon hearing his voice—smooth and deep, I'll give everything to hear it again—I look up. I've heard some people say _(although very jokingly, I'm taking my chances here)_ that my orbs hold galaxies, wonders, curiosity about the world—at this moment, it is curiosity about him.

I have no time to mentally prepare myself for this moment.

"It's nothing, really!" I say, following it with a nervous laughter. He stares at me, almost _(or more like_ _ **entirely**_ _)_ sure that is not what I mean to say.

Good job, Lukas.

"I'm just wondering what that book is about...?" My statement accidentally ends like a question, despite it most definitely not being one _(am I really gonna doubt my own words now, of all times?)_.

He raises a brow. In his hand is a thick book, its pages yellowish due to its age, though he takes special care of it. The title is written in Norwegian, so it's clear to him that I have no clue of its content _(he does, however, look confident that I'm not so interested in the book than I am in him; I'm transparent, way too transparent)_.

"It's about folklore," he answers, his voice monotonous and his eyes shifting from me to the book, opting to just continue reading.

Lukas is really interesting.

Something clicks in me—the desire to learn more about him. His likes, dislikes—everything. I know it's going to take a lot of time, but if it's for him, it's never time wasted.

"...Is it alright if you tell me about it?" I ask.

I'm aware of how different we are—he is beauty personified, a masterpiece; I am fragments of glass pieced together, trying hard to fit well enough.

He looks at me, noticing the way my lips twitch a bit _(hesitation—he must have been wondering if I should have said nothing at all, or if I must say more—in which case, I most certainly am pretty speechless at the moment)_ , the way I twiddled with my fingers out of nervousness.

But I have determination. He opens his mouth to speak.

"I don't mind."

Perhaps broken glass has a charm to it.


	2. ten sticks of butter

I don't know how I got sucked into this, but I've decided that, well, it was of my own accord _(and it's not like I didn't like his presence; it's just a bit awkward)_.

The day I decided to talk to him was the start of it all. We've had conversations even before, but none of them were particularly meaningful _(they were almost always obligatory, really; I can't blame our groups of friends or our schedules clashing every now and then)_. He told me about his country's folklore, and I got so absorbed (I'm not sure if there was a hint of interest or at least amusement in his eyes, but I swear I saw it one second then it disappeared the other) that neither of us noticed that the sky was growing darker by the minute.

It surprised me when Mathias, Lukas' self-proclaimed best friend _(Lukas denies that almost too quickly)_ had asked them to go shopping for food supplies for a party of some sorts. None of us had plans for the day, which was good _(and I desperately tried to hide the excitement in my voice when Mathias told me)_.

So here we are now, Lukas pushing the cart while I'm trying to read Mathias' handwriting. I squint at the piece of paper. _Buffev? What is that? Mathias, seriously?_

He holds out his hand, and I give him the paper.

"It's butter."

"Oh."

He steers the cart towards the dairy section, and I follow suit. My eyes stay on his figure. We're both fifteen, so it irritates me that he's already supermodel quality. Probably even before puberty he's been like that _(handsome as ever, hot as ever)_ , but it has never thought of blessing me.

What an ass puberty is _(I do, however, thank its powers for Lukas Bondevik)_.

Lost in my own thoughts, my eyes widen when I realize that Lukas put 10 sticks of butter into the cart. "...Do we really need that much?"

His eyes solely focus on me and I feel my cheeks flush, but the way he's looking at me makes me feel what I said is _**blasphemous**_.

"There's no such thing as too much butter."


End file.
